Soul Proof

Stacy Quinn knew drama like she knew the back of her hand – intimately, but from a safe, appreciative distance. Her graphic design work, all clean lines and sans-serif fonts, mirrored her life’s philosophy: no unnecessary flourish, no bold, messy strokes. Her mornings began with a triple-shot Americano, a ritual that provided not just caffeine, but a buffer, a thin shield against the chaotic demands of the world. And no one embodied that chaos more spectacularly than her grandmother, Vivian.

Vivian, at 78, was a sequined supernova. A former burlesque star, she moved through life with the sashay of a woman who expected a spotlight to follow her. Her closet, a shimmering cavern, held more glitter than a convention of drag queens. Her smirk, a relic from a thousand curtain calls, could curdle milk. But beneath the sparkle and the sass lay a peculiar, draining truth: Vivian was a soul sucker, a low-grade supernatural who fed on people’s emotional energy. She didn't consume souls, not in the grim, Faustian sense. No, Vivian preferred the lighter fare: a burst of joy, a pang of frustration, the fizz of excitement – anything that made a person feel acutely alive. After a Vivian encounter, her victims were left cranky, prone to sudden naps, and with a vague sense of having misplaced their spark.

Stacy, however, was inexplicably immune. Her emotional landscape, though not devoid of feeling, was a Teflon pan to Vivian’s hungry tendrils. Attempts to siphon Stacy’s spark were met with a shrug, a raised eyebrow, or a particularly strong sigh. Vivian’s powers simply fizzled, leaving the old woman looking perplexed, like a vampire whose fangs had inexplicably turned to rubber. Stacy had learned to treat it as an annoying party trick, an occupational hazard of having an ‘extra’ grandmother.

Today, the hazard arrived in the form of a heavily perfumed phone call. “Darling! I’m in town! Lunch, you, me, and… my granddaughter!” The last two words, dripping with a possessive honey, sent a faint tremor down Stacy’s spine. Vivian rarely bothered with her, preferring more emotionally vibrant targets. The last time Vivian had shown such specific interest, a perpetually cheerful neighbour had somehow lost his passion for competitive gardening and started wearing sensible cardigans.

“Riley’s got school,” Stacy said, already anticipating the dramatic sigh. “Oh, pish posh! A little culture won’t hurt the girl. I’ll pick her up. Two o’clock! Don’t you dare eat anything before then, I’m treating to the most divine little bistro.”

Stacy hung up, a knot tightening in her stomach. Two o’clock. A French bistro. Riley. Riley. Her daughter. Seventeen years old, all vibrant energy, quick wit, and the kind of effervescent enthusiasm that practically vibrated visible light. Riley loved trying new things, loved her friends with the ferocity of a lioness, and was currently consumed by a passionate, all-encompassing love for a band whose name Stacy could never quite grasp. Riley was, in short, a buffet. A five-star, all-you-can-eat emotional buffet for Vivian.

---

The bistro was, as expected, a flamboyant affair, all red velvet and gilt. Vivian, swathed in a purple silk caftan that shimmered with every theatrical gesture, was already holding court with a hapless waiter, who looked increasingly pale and flustered. Stacy watched, a practiced observer, as Vivian’s charm, a potent blend of flattery and thinly veiled condescension, slowly leached the waiter’s polite deference, replacing it with a tired resentment. By the time Stacy and Riley arrived, the poor man was practically wilting.

“Darling girl!” Vivian exclaimed, her eyes, though focused on Stacy, already flicking to Riley. “Look at you! A vision! So much… sparkle!” She reached out, her heavily jeweled hand brushing Riley’s cheek. Riley, momentarily startled, giggled.

Stacy felt a cold dread settle in her chest. This was different. Vivian’s attention, usually a fleeting thing for Stacy’s family, was intense, almost predatory, on Riley. And Riley, bless her innocent heart, was responding with exactly the kind of open, effusive energy Vivian craved.

Lunch was a masterclass in emotional extraction. Vivian regaled them with tales of her burlesque days, each story peppered with outrageous details and demanding Riley’s full attention. “And then, darling, the Maharaja, bless his cotton socks, tried to bribe me with a solid gold elephant! Can you imagine? I told him, ‘Sir, my art is not for sale, only my performance!’” Riley, wide-eyed, laughed at all the right moments, gasping at the scandalous bits, asking earnest questions about costumes and stage fright.

Stacy watched, sipping her water, a silent guardian. Every time Riley’s eyes lit up, every time she leaned forward in excitement, Stacy saw a faint, invisible tendril stretch from Vivian. She’d seen it before, on others. A shimmer, a subtle shift in the air, a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor in the victim’s aura. She always dismissed it, a quirk of her own overactive imagination, or maybe just the general weirdness of her grandmother. But now, directed at Riley, it was undeniably there.

By the time the crème brûlée arrived, Riley’s usual effervescence had dimmed. Her giggles were less frequent, her posture sagged slightly. She picked at her dessert, her earlier enthusiasm for the rich confection gone. “It’s… really sweet,” she mumbled, pushing it away.

Vivian, meanwhile, looked positively radiant. Her eyes sparkled, her movements were more fluid, her voice held a deeper resonance. She had feasted.

On the drive home, Riley was unusually quiet. “Grandma Vivian is… a lot,” she finally offered, staring out the window. “She is,” Stacy agreed, keeping her voice even. “I feel kinda… tired,” Riley added, stifling a yawn. “Like I pulled an all-nighter.” Stacy’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. It wasn’t an all-nighter. It was Vivian.

---

That night, Stacy couldn't sleep. The image of Vivian’s eyes, alight with a hunger Stacy had never truly acknowledged, replayed in her mind. Her own immunity had always been a curiosity, a mild inconvenience. Vivian had tried, of course, countless times. A dramatic story of betrayal, a sudden declaration of love, a manufactured crisis – all designed to illicit an emotional response, a delicious morsel for Vivian to consume. But Stacy’s emotional well was either too deep, too still, or simply invisible to Vivian’s peculiar palate. Her responses were always muted, pragmatic, or laced with an irony that seemed to short-circuit Vivian’s efforts.

“Oh, darling, your life is so… sensible,” Vivian had once bemoaned, after a particularly unrewarding attempt to draw drama from Stacy’s meticulously organized tax receipts. “Where is the passion? The sorrow? The glorious, messy, human being?”

Stacy just shrugged and handed her a cup of decaf.

But Riley was different. Riley was a geyser of passion, sorrow, and glorious mess. Riley was everything Stacy, in her drama-dodging wisdom, had learned to temper. And Vivian had seen it.

Stacy started observing Vivian more closely. Vivian’s visits, once sporadic, became more frequent. She’d drop by “just to say hello,” armed with a dazzling smile and an endless supply of questions for Riley. “How was school, pet? Any triumphs? Any delightful scandals?”

Riley, initially flattered, soon started showing the tell-tale signs. Short tempers, sudden mood swings, an inexplicable inability to focus on her homework. Her art projects, usually bursting with colour, became muted, almost grey. Her energy, once boundless, was now erratic, prone to sudden crashes. After a “Vivian visit,” Riley would often retreat to her room, complaining of a headache, or simply stating, “I just feel… blah.”

Stacy saw it, clear as day. The spark was being siphoned. Her daughter, her vibrant, effervescent Riley, was slowly being drained.

One afternoon, Stacy caught Vivian staring at Riley while she was animatedly describing a particularly frustrating band practice. Vivian’s smile wasn't kind; it was calculating, a connoisseur appreciating a fine vintage. And in her eyes, Stacy saw it – the hunger. The clear, undeniable intent. It was like catching a predator eyeing its prey, and the prey was her child.

This wasn’t merely annoying. This was an attack. And Stacy Quinn, the woman who dodged drama like a ninja, felt a very un-Stacy-like surge of protective fury.

---

She tried the subtle approach first. “Grandma, maybe you shouldn’t visit so often,” Stacy ventured, trying to sound casual. “Riley’s got a lot of schoolwork, and she gets easily overwhelmed.”

Vivian merely arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Overwhelmed? Darling, a little socialisation is precisely what keeps the mind sharp. And I am hardly overwhelming. I merely provide… stimulating conversation.” She winked, a sequin on her shirt catching the light and flashing, like a tiny, malevolent eye. “Besides, Riley enjoys my company. Don’t you, dear?” She turned to Riley, who was slumped on the couch, scrolling through her phone.

Riley looked up, her eyes glazed. “Huh? Oh, yeah, Grandma. You’re great.” Her voice lacked conviction, the enthusiasm forced.

Vivian smiled, a predatory gleam in her eyes. It was a clear warning: She’s mine to take.

Stacy knew then that subtlety was a fool’s game with Vivian. This called for a different strategy. She couldn’t fight Vivian’s powers directly; she had no powers herself, beyond her inexplicable immunity. But she understood Vivian. Vivian thrived on drama, on spectacle, on intense emotional energy. What if Stacy could starve her? Not by depriving her of any emotion, but by denying her the kind of emotion she craved. What if Stacy could make Riley’s emotional energy unpalatable? Dull? Boring?

Stacy’s drama-dodging, her Teflon-pan immunity, had always been her defense. Now, she would turn it into a weapon. She would unleash the full, soul-crushing power of mundanity.

---

The first step was to control the environment. Whenever Vivian announced a visit, Stacy swung into action. The usually cheerful house transformed. Bright cushions were replaced with beige throws. Riley’s vibrant pop music was swapped for instrumental classical, specifically the most uninspired Baroque fugues Stacy could find on Spotify. The scent of coffee was replaced by a faint, almost imperceptible smell of unscented air freshener.

When Vivian arrived for her next “pop-in,” she was greeted by a house steeped in an unnatural calm. Riley was at the dining table, diligently working on her calculus homework. Stacy was nearby, organizing recipe cards by alphabetical order.

“Darling!” Vivian exclaimed, surveying the scene with a bewildered frown. “What is this? A library? Where’s the sparkle? The… life?”

“Riley’s got a big test coming up,” Stacy replied, not looking up from her cards. “And I’m just trying to make sense of these recipes. Did you know there are three different ways to make a béchamel sauce? It’s truly fascinating.”

Vivian visibly recoiled. She tried to engage Riley. “So, pet, any exciting developments with your band? Are you quite the rockstar yet?”

Riley, tutored by Stacy, sighed dramatically. “Nah, Grandma. Band practice was super boring. We just argued about drum fills for two hours. And my math homework is, like, impossible. I think I need to just study more, you know? Less excitement, more… quadratic equations.”

Vivian’s smile faltered. She tried another tack. “Oh, but surely you have some delightful gossip from school? Who’s dating whom? Any scandalous breakups?”

Riley yawned. “Not really. Everyone’s just stressed about finals. It’s pretty boring, to be honest.”

Stacy, still meticulously alphabetizing, interjected, “I was just reading about the history of standardized testing, Riley. Did you know the first modern exams were developed in China during the Han Dynasty?”

Vivian made a strangled sound. She stayed for an hour, an hour of bland conversation, of dull facts, of carefully curated apathy. She left looking strangely subdued.

Stacy poured herself a celebratory cup of coffee. It was working. Vivian was a creature of intensity. Too much un-stimulation, and she herself felt drained.

---

Vivian, however, was persistent. And wily. She tried circumventing Stacy’s defenses. She’d suggest meeting Riley outside, at a café, away from the beige fortress. But Stacy was always one step ahead.

“Oh, Grandma, I can’t,” Riley would say, under Stacy’s subtle direction. “Mom and I are going to the hardware store to pick out grout for the bathroom tiles. It’s a whole thing. Apparently, the sheen matters.”

Vivian’s face would pinch. “Grout? Darling, surely you’d rather… live?”

“Grout is living, Grandma,” Stacy would deadpan, swooping in. “It’s about making a house a home. The very essence of domestic bliss.” She’d then launch into a detailed explanation of epoxy vs. sanded grout, watching with grim satisfaction as Vivian’s flamboyant energy visibly sagged.

The war of attrition continued. Stacy made sure every interaction Vivian had with Riley was a swamp of dullness. She’d insist on showing Vivian her meticulously organized spreadsheet for household budgeting. She’d discuss the merits of various brands of paper towels. She’d make Riley practice her least exciting piano pieces during Vivian’s visits.

Vivian, used to a diet of sparkling emotions, began to visibly suffer. Her sequins seemed less bright, her voice lost some of its melodramatic flourish. She started complaining of headaches. She even started taking naps in the middle of the day – a sure sign she wasn’t getting her emotional fix. The irony was not lost on Stacy; Vivian was becoming like her own victims.

The climax came during what Vivian grandly declared was her “last-ditch effort to inject some joie de vivre into this mausoleum.” She arrived, not in sequins, but in a surprisingly tasteful (for her) chartreuse silk dress, armed with a bottle of champagne and a box of artisan chocolates. Her plan, she announced, was to take Riley shopping for “something delightful and utterly frivolous.”

Stacy, who had anticipated this, met her at the door with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Ah, Grandma. Perfect timing. Riley and I were just about to sit down for our monthly review of utility bills.”

Vivian’s jaw dropped. “Utility bills? Are you quite mad?”

“It’s very important, Grandma,” Riley chimed in, perfectly coached. “Mom says understanding our energy consumption is key to being responsible citizens. And the fluctuating gas prices? Fascinating.” She picked up a thick folder filled with papers.

Vivian stared at Riley, then at Stacy, then at the folder. Her eyes, usually so sharp and predatory, looked bewildered. She tried one last, desperate push. “But darling Riley, think of the shops! The shoes! The sheer joy of trying on something utterly impractical and fabulous!” She uncorked the champagne with a theatrical flourish, hoping the pop would elicit a spark.

Riley, however, just blinked. “I guess. But I’m really trying to budget right now. I need to save up for a new graphing calculator. And this water bill, Mom, it says here we used twenty gallons less this month! Isn’t that great?”

Stacy smiled. “Excellent work, honey. We’re really making progress on our conservation goals.”

Vivian’s face crumpled. The champagne, the chocolates, the carefully planned frivolousness – it was all crashing against Stacy’s impenetrable wall of beige. She looked at Riley, then back at Stacy, and for the first time, Stacy saw a flicker of defeat in her grandmother’s eyes. Riley’s emotional landscape, usually a vibrant meadow, had been expertly flattened into a featureless, parched plain by Stacy’s unwavering commitment to the utterly uninteresting. Vivian couldn’t find purchase. There was no joy to siphon, no frustration to feast on, only the dry dust of practical concerns.

“I… I suddenly feel quite unwell,” Vivian announced, her voice lacking its usual theatricality. She clutched her chest, more out of habit than genuine distress. “I think… I need to lie down. Somewhere… less… organized.” She turned and, without even a dramatic flounce, shuffled out the door. The champagne bottle sat forgotten on the hall table.

Stacy watched her go, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. She had done it. She had finally weaponized her own drama-dodging, turning her immunity into a shield for her daughter. Riley was safe, at least for now. Vivian would find other targets, no doubt – there were plenty of vibrant, emotionally available people in the world. But she would not be finding them under Stacy’s roof.

Later that evening, Riley, curled up on the couch, finally seemed to regain some of her lost spark. “Mom,” she said, looking up from her phone, a genuine smile on her face. “Thanks for that. Grandma was really starting to freak me out.”

Stacy just nodded, reaching for her coffee. “No problem, honey. Sometimes, the most powerful weapon is simply… being boring.”

She took a sip, the dark brew a comforting warmth spreading through her veins. Perhaps her immunity wasn’t just a fluke. Perhaps it was a lesson, learned over decades of dodging the spotlight, of choosing the quiet hum over the dramatic crescendo. Perhaps, in her own unassuming way, Stacy Quinn was more powerful than she ever knew. And for her daughter, she would gladly be the most Teflon-coated, drama-dodging, spreadsheet-loving, beige-wearing superhero the world had ever seen.